Mrs. Darko Gives Advice Pertaining to Wibbles

WIBBLE: A feeling of insecurity, typically temporary or fleeting, when seeing a partner being affectionate with someone else. Contrast compersionfrubbleUsage: Primarily British; less common outside the United Kingdom.

My girlfriend was out of reach all day long. She’d been gone all day and hadn’t reached out to me once. This wasn’t typical. On top of that, she was in Paris.

When she finally got back in touch, it was near midnight, Paris time.

“Is everything okay, love?”
“Yeah, this French boy gave me a ride to Marseilles. But it was totally innocuous. There was no wi-fi, so I couldn’t reach out to you .”

Something didn’t exactly jive right.

“Okay. I love you. I was getting a bit concerned. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“There were kisses. But they were obligatory. After all, he did drive me an hour both ways.”
I paused.
“I didn’t know if obligatory kisses were something I needed to tell you about.”

That’s when the wibbles hit me. And the feelings of distrust. If they had just gone to Marseille, why was she getting back past midnight? Where they doing other stuff besides kissing? My imagination was running wild.

“Thank you for telling me, my love. I’m happy that you felt comfortable being open with me.”

I’m polyamorous. She’s not. She’s had very little experience being polyamorous. And despite our being madly in love, we had been dating barely two months.

I had other partners. And I didn’t actually mind it if she hooked up with someone while she was in Paris. For fuck’s sake, I’d watched my wife, my submissive wife, give other men head in front of me! I’d watch other women make her squirt. Why was I getting so freaked out about a couple of kisses?

Well, I’d been in control of my wife in both those instances. If I’d said ‘stop,’ she would have stopped. Control made up some of the difference.

My girlfriend had been hesitant to disclose the kiss. Maybe it had been more than that, and she was too afraid to tell me. Maybe she was afraid I would break up with her if she did.

Lack of control. Fear of the unknown. Mistrust. Fear. Fear of what? I didn’t know.

But it was beyond mere wibbles. It was jealousy. One myth about polyamory is that Poly people don’t get jealous. We absolutely do. But the best of us realize that we have to take responsibility for our wibbles and our jealousy, and to find good ways to process it.

It was my job, in this situation, to be the best version of myself. To be awesome. I should be as trusting, compassionate, and loving as I could possible be.

So I told her that I loved her. I told her, next time, I’d like to know before she runs off with a boy on a crazy adventure. I clarified, I wasn’t angry, I’d just like to know beforehand. But I loved her, and everything was okay.

“You’re still my girl. This changes none of that. And you can say anything to me.”

In that moment, that was the best version of myself. I’d curbed my wibbles and/or jealousy. I’d made very clear that I always wanted her to feel comfortable being open and honest. I reassured her that I cared about her.

Emotional restraint. Clear communication. Reassurance. These were essential poly skills.

I’d learned these skills from my wonderful wife.

The next section isn’t written by me. It’s written by her: my wife. The woman I’ve been with 11 years. And who has taught me what it means to be an amazing polyamorous partner, and gave me advice on how she deals with her wibbles.

Dealing with Wibbles
by Mrs. Darko, Dommie’s Wife

The unknown is always worse. Always. But planning ahead is never perfect. So what do I do?

I remember that you love love me, and that you don’t intend to hurt me. I remember that wobbles happen. That they’re okay.

I distract myself. I stop and breathe and try to separate the rational things I’m thinking from the irrational. I create space for myself to think and process before trying to communicate with you.

I take responsibility for my wibbles. I accept them and examine them to see if there’s some way one or both of us could be doing something differently, or if they’re just garden-variety wobbles and I need to go do something by myself until they pass.

The wibbles get way worse if you and I haven’t been getting that much time together. So I try to plan in special times for us, too. If we’re getting along, if I feel secure in our relationship, and if we’ve been spending quality time together. I can get less wibbly and can more easily tolerate things like surprise scheduling and late check-ins. Which isn’t to say they’re okay, but they’re less emotionally awful.

And I understand. Shit happens.

Reading all this, I wonder why anyone, especially Mrs. Darko, puts up with a polyamorous relationship model.

The answer, as clichéd as it might seem, is … love. We polyamorous folk go through this because we don’t want to limit our capacity to love. And because it’s worth it. If anything is worth such ridiculous emotional gymnastics, love is.

Strong Women, Male Feminists, and Soul Food

Cathy is my ex-lover, my writing mentor, my confidante and friend, and one of many Libertarian friends that I have (despite not being Libertarian).

She’s also a regular contributor to this here blog. We get together to compare notes on polyamory and politics, and everything in between.

She often tells me I’m wrong in such a blunt way that, if I were less feminist and/or less autistic, might get under my skin. It doesn’t though. I love her for it.

We sat and had lunch the other day, and she wrote about it.

Wednesday I had an early lunch with my friend Dommie Darko (not his real name). He’s a writer, and he gives amazing compliments. Like when he said a man has to love strong women to be interested in dating me. Or when I said I was insecure about my education, and he told me I was extremely clever, by which he meant witty and able to very quickly suss out the meaning and importance of things.

Over fried chicken for me and a scramble for him, he elaborated on the strong women point he’d made days earlier. “You disagree forcefully with me. You don’t hesitate to tell me ‘You’re wrong,’ or ‘No, that’s stupid.’ Men are delicate. They don’t like that.” He is right. I did this to him when we were first dating, when you’d think I’d be on my best, not-castrating behavior. Obviously I still do it now that we’re not having sex and it’s even less important to me that his gonads remain attached.

He is right that men who don’t like strong women don’t tend to do well with me. But I don’t think of myself as a strong woman. I think of myself as shy and retiring and someone who has trouble establishing and maintaining boundaries. Someone who’s had sex she wasn’t jazzed about because saying no would have taken more effort, and made it awkward. But, through both luck and force of will, no one has entered my body who I knew I wanted to not be there.

I’m not strong for the same reason I’m not brave. I regularly publish my most intimate and embarrassing thoughts and feelings online. But that’s not because I’m better at overcoming my fear of doing so than other people. It’s that I feel less fear to begin with. I’m not embarrassed about the same things other people are embarrassed about. I’m not ashamed of the same things. I don’t even find the same things intimate. I’m not courageous, I’m defective. But I’m broken in a way that I’ve learned how to turn into a strength.

What does it mean to be a “strong woman?” I think to an extent it’s male feminist for “bitch.” It’s disagreeing forcefully because I forget that people don’t like to be corrected. It’s making a face when someone says something interesting about themselves instead of trying to appear neutral because I forget they might feel judged by me.

Read More at Cathy’s blog: Sex and the State 

My experience with *ahem* “forceful women” (to quote Cathy) goes back quite a ways. There was a girl in my sophomore French class who saw me reading Charles Bukowski.

“You’re reading Bukowski?” she asked, kind of snottily.

“Yeah, do you like Bukowski?” I responded, hopefully.

“I think he’s a misogynist pig,”  she replied, and sneered.

And that was the moment that I fell in love with my first high school girlfriend. Over the next several months, she would introduce me to Simone De Beauvoir and Emma Goldman, as well as several female authors and feminist novelists. She was my very first feminist girlfriend. Since then, I’ve always had quite the hard-on for feminism.

I say this as I listen to Easy-E rap about “jockin the bitches” and “smackin the hos.” I feel like a faker.

I didn’t even start calling myself a feminist until a couple of years ago. However, my wife and ex-girlfriends assure me that’s what I am. I’m proud to be it. But I don’t try very hard. I don’t go to rallies or anything. I don’t belong to any special organizations or anything. The secret to my feminism, if there is one, is this: I’m diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum. And humans puzzle the fuck out of me. Both female humans and male humans, and also the non-binary ones.

So I sit with women and listen to them, and try to understand their perspective—not as women, but as humans. And most of the time it doesn’t make much sense. But feminists are committed to being seen equally as humans. This makes sense to me. So, I guess that what it is for me to be a feminist.

I still listen to NWA and read Bukowski though.

A Poly-dude’s Letter to His Monogamous Girlfriend

It’s a foggy day here in the Sunset. I was trying not to drink tonight. But I broke down and had one shot of whiskey. Trying to do what you were doing before you met my alcoholic hooligan ass, and keep the drinking to a minimum.

I took today off for the sake of mental health. Did chores. I needed some downtime.

You’re mentioned, peripherally, in the most recent post. Here’s the story. I was talking to KK about my piece on my breakup with Amelie. Then KK asked me, well, why did you date me? So I decided to write her an ex-post facto breakup letter than includes the following: “I have a girlfriend now. And she tells me that she loves me every single day. And I say it to her. It’s a lovely love that mostly lacks anxiety, as we have a high degree of certainty that we’re both crazy about each other. This is what I want for you and your boy.”

It mostly lacks anxiety, this love of ours. I know there are worries. You’re worried that I’ll forget about you. That I’ll go off chasing some new girl. I’m worried that you’ll eventually be persuaded that monogamy with someone is better than being in love with a poly-dude. I know these are worries. So I’m putting them out there on the table. Y’know why?

Because I don’t want to hide a single damn thing from you, my love. I’m a bit of slut. I have been. But right now, I don’t need anything but you and the blog. And it surprises me. I have no idea what the future may hold. And that makes me anxious. I don’t trust myself. But I know I’m not gonna hide a goddamn thing from you.

Besides, I write everything in my blog. So you know exactly what I’m up to.

This trip to Paris. Seeing all these pictures. Well, at the sake of sounding so infinitely fucking shmoopy: I … I look at you and I think, “Goddamn, I love this fucking girl.” And that hasn’t happened in so so long. I just hope that you can accept me for all my strange poly-kinky quirks. Our relationship will never be a normal. But to me it’s extraordinary.

All my love,


My Breakup Letter to My Pornstar Girlfriend

The name of the girl in question has been changed. “Amelie” is neither her real name, nor her stage name, but actually the name of one of my favorite movies.

That having been said, here is the text of my breakup text to her, sent from an Uber at 9:46 pm, October 31st.

I don’t know what to say to you, Amelie. I’ve always been honest with you, so the honest thing for me to say is this.

It’s really all my fault.

You meant more to me than I ever told you. And this wasn’t a lie, but a true failure to disclose. The true thing I failed to disclose to you was how totally important to me you were.

I suppose that the best thing to do when you care deeply about someone is to tell them. Immediately. And I should have done that.

A beautiful girl who was fun and kinky and loved horror movies. In so many ways you personified an ideal for me. You won’t be replaced. I’ll miss you so so so much.

It’s been a while since my heart has been broken so thoroughly. A while.

But ultimately closure is a gift you give yourself. So that’s what I’m doing, I guess. Oh Amelie, I’ll always remember you as the girl who broke my heart on my favorite holiday.

Always sincere,

❤️  Dommie

Jesus, I was so fucking misguided. But I’m getting ahead of myself. First the backstory.

Amelie was also not a porn star when I met her—on the set of an orgiastic BDSM porn shoot at the San Francisco Armory. She had been one briefly, several years previous. But when I met her, she had left The Industry to go to school.

The night I met Amelie, I was fairly intoxicated and probably under the influence of 10 mgs of extended release Adderall that I’d bummed off My Wife. The alcohol was necessary for killing the social anxiety and self-consciousness I so often felt in a party atmosphere. Without the Adderall, I tended to over-drink and end up acting like a jackass, and (worst of all) I’d end up completely ignoring My Wife.

My Wife. She bummed me her ADHD medication, in part, because it helped me focus on continuing to pay attention to her, rather than getting overwhelmed and distracted by all the boobs and fucking.

My Wife and I were girl-watching and we spotted Amelie together. At the time, she had purple hair and was wearing a shiny patent-leather mini-skirt. We both agreed, she was one of the sexiest girls in the room. Much more sexy than any of the porn stars who were actually filming that night. Somehow, through a series of events that I’m not entirely certain of, I ended up with Amelie sitting in my lap while I stroked her leg and told her that her sitting in my lap was giving me an enormous erection.

“Oh, I’m aware,” she said. And laughed her cute little Amelie laugh.

Dommie Darko, when somewhat drunk and overly confident, is able to achieve great feats of seduction through careful and precise application of disarming honesty.

Amelie was not the first person in the sex/kink industry with whom I’d had an intimate relationship. One of my first college roommates had paid her way through school by being a professional dominatrix and amateur kink model. Several years later, I had shared a room with a girl who had been a dancer at the Lusty Lady, a strip club in the North Beach District of San Francisco, famous for being the first and only strip club in San Francisco to ever successfully unionize.

Amelie was kinky. The most reliable way to make her come was to fuck her hard with her legs behind her head, while choking her. Further, like most women I have known who have spent time in the sex industry, she loved sex. She masturbated daily. However, she wasn’t the most kinky or sex-driven girl I had ever dated. And sex wasn’t the primary reason I started falling for her. At least I hope it wasn’t.

Our relationship started with my careful application of disarming honesty. Our first few dates involved us talking about how we had survived very traumatic childhoods, and very dysfunctional families. But although we bonded over this, what really won over Amelie (enough for her to be willing to call herself my girlfriend) was horror movies and wordplay: puns, specifically. She loved making puns, and adored my quick-witted capacity for punditry and punishment. She went to see Troll 2 with me. Troll 2, widely considered to be one of the worst movies of all time.

Of course, she also enjoyed being tied to furniture and brutally fucked with my hands around her throat. And afterwards, we’d clean ourselves up, grab some falafel and a bottle of wine, and take her welsh corgi to the dog park so he could sheepishly avoid interacting with other dogs.

Was this love? Is turkey bacon a type of bacon? Maybe it wasn’t love, but it was something approximating it. At least, I thought.

After someone goes through a breakup, we often ask them, “What went wrong? Why did you guys breakup?”—as if there is one single identifiable cause that can be cited. This is pretty common on the show Seinfeld, where Jerry has broken up with a woman …

  • For having “man hands.”
  • For eating peas one pea at a time.
  • For wearing the same dress every day.
  • For being a “low talker.”

But more often than, not, in real life, this is a bunch of bullshit.

I mean, if there is one reason that is to blame for the demise of most relationships (both polyamorous, non-monogamous and monogamous), it’s just that NRE (see: “new relationship energy”) has faded. It’s easy to overlook various underlying issues when someone is shiny and new. And usually there are issue(s)—emphasis on the plural—rather than a single issue.

Stories about relationships generally have three parts: how you met, how you fell in love, and what broke you up. This is the third part, the breakup. The problem is, there is no story, or narrative behind why we broke up. She drifted off. She texted less. She stopped sending Snapchats. Then on Halloween, there was a fight—whose details shall not be disclosed to protect her privacy—and I knew that I was going to beat her to the punch.

This analysis provided here, is purely after the fact. First, one thing was clear: Amelie was always quite happy with the fact that I was married. Besides the fact that my marriage provided her with a third for some awesome threesomes, the fact that I was married meant (to her) that I would not make the same demands of her time or attention as a single dude might have.

I’m also gonna speculate that she erroneously assume that my being married meant that I did not run the risk of becoming deeply emotionally involved or forming substantial emotional attachments. But I did form emotional attachment. Right from the beginning.

I’m gonna speculate that that was the problem.

So although I did the breaking up, I was merely responding to Amelie’s intentional distancing of herself from me.

Rereading my breakup letter to Amelie, and what stands out to me is this: The reason I lost Amelie was not that I didn’t tell her how deeply I cared about her. The reason I lost her was that I made her into something she didn’t want to be. She didn’t want to be my girlfriend. But that’s what I made her, against her wishes.

I hate colonizers and missionaries. I hate them because they try to bring their version of civilization or religion to places where they don’t belong. But that’s what I had been. She hadn’t wanted to be on one side of ampersand. That wasn’t the kind of attachment she wanted. So the lesson is this: don’t give people what they don’t want. That’s what I did.

Although she and I aren’t on speaking terms, I feel like I have to say: I’m sorry. I’m sorry Amelie, for being a colonizing, missionary of emotional attachment.

My Ex Post Facto Breakup Letter to KK

Dearest KK,

It’s a bit strange to be writing you a breakup letter like … six months after the fact. Especially since we never really broke up. There was nothing to break. There was a boy; you were totally enamored with him. There was the prerequisite unrequitedness that drove you kinda nuts, but in a way that I found totally adorable. The nutser you got, the more adorable I found you.

Because you love and adored this boy in the same way I’d loved and adored people in the past.

Seeing this, and knowing that unrequited might become requited at any moment, why did I stick around?

Firstly, because the way you felt about him didn’t change the way I felt about you. There’s a particular poignant polyamorous poetry to this: seeing the way you cared about him made me care about you all the more.

Now, there’s a certain magnificence to requitement, KK. Besides having a wife, I have a girlfriend now. And she tells me that she loves me every single day. And I say it to her. It’s a lovely love that mostly lacks anxiety, as we have a high degree of certainty that we’re both crazy about each other. This is what I want for you and your boy.

What we had wasn’t love, but we were utterly totally okay with each others presence, and we celebrated this okayness because—let’s face it, it’s pretty rare to find another person who makes you feel completely comfortable around, where you can be strange and unusual but utterly yourself. And I knew for a fact that this is one of the things that can grow into love, given time.

So I stuck around because you were worth the risk. Some people are.

**winky face**, 


Fuck Opinions

by Dommie Darko.

So here’s what I did: I went off Facebook for a while. I’m actually back on now. Maybe only for a little while.

So, let me tell you what happened to me after I stopped going on Facebook. I stopped discussing the news that everyone else was discussing. I stopped talking about the article or issue of the week. I started talking about my life, and inviting other people to talk to me about their lives as well.

I started this blog. So I could share my human experiences.

I also started reading memoirists. David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, specifically. But also Amanda Palmer’s book and Laura Jane Grace’s Biography, Tranny.

And when I was doing this, I realized something. This is what draws us to one another: our stories. Not our thoughts on news, or our quasi-informed opinions. What brings us together are our feelings about things—and yes, these can be connected to the news. But we need to connect it to our actual lives, and to tell people about that.

So here’s what I have to say. Fuck opinions. I’m tired of opinions. I don’t care about what you feel about an issue. What I do care about is why you feel that way. What about your life has led you to feel this way.

Start a blog. If you’re afraid of what people will think of you, make it anonymous. Ask me how.

But, for fuck’s sake, be real and make yourself vulnerable. Vulnerability is real. Your goddamn opinion is shared by thousands, millions of fucking people. Your life is unique and your life’s story is therefore infinitely valuable.

Fuck opinions.

89 Years Old

by Dommie Darko.

Around 40% of marriages are “effectively celibate,” with the couple having sex less than 10 times a year. This is, I think, pretty fucked up.

Part of being sex-positive, I think, is not being disgusted by the idea of old people having sex. Yeah, it can be hard to think of some old man or woman getting all lubed up so they can bone down. But the very fact that they’re doing it is, I think, beautiful.

We Have Time Now

by Dommie Darko.

I used to date a girl who would play with the skin at the end of my elbows.  She told her me that the skin at the end of elbows was probably the ugliest part of the human body.

“Why do you play with it, then?”

“I like it.”

I told her that I though kneecaps were the ugliest part of the human body.

“I like them!” she said enthusiastically. “I used to liked to push mine around all the time.”

“Why did you stop?”

“Just don’t think about it anymore,” she commented, sadly. Her brows slightly furrowed. “There’s just too many other things to think about.”

Well we have time now, I thought. And we sat on my couch, in the winter sun, and she fiddled with her kneecaps.

Reminiscences About the Upper Floor

by Dommie Darko.

I used to attend a now-defunct but very elite sex party in San Francisco’s Armory, called “The Upper Floor.” It was, more-or-less a BDSM orgy, with people flogging and fucking in every corner, while others walked around sipping champagne and eating fancy hors d’oeuvres.

I would stick around after people started heading home, playing the piano and drinking free booze and occasionally talking to the party organizer, Stefanos as he organized the cleanup. He donned latex gloves to pick wipe down the sex tables, pick up the used wash clothes, and make sure all the lube was accounted for.

There is this time after every orgy, perhaps the next morning, when all the fun has been had, and bleary eyed and perhaps hung over, you have to survey the carnage. It’s a quiet time, when you can rehydrate, put on Yo-yo Mas Bach Cello Suites and joyfully reminisce, and also reflect on what went well and what didn’t.

It isn’t that much different from cleaning up after any other dinner party, except with more washcloths, lube, and wet wipes. Also I imagine normal dinner parties you don’t end up finding used condoms behind the couch.

My Relationship with My Gender

by Dommie Darko.

I’m 8 years old and standing in front of a mirror, obsessing about which side to part my hair on. I’m slightly ashamed of how much time I put into my appearance. I feel like it’s weird: how much time I spend thinking about the clothes I want to wear, and how I want to look. I know it’s not something that other boys do, at least I’d never observed them fussing in this manner. Somewhere deep inside, I know that little boys like me aren’t supposed to deliberate about their outfits.

So I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed just because I know that I’m different than other boys. And I’m mostly I’m ashamed because, when I look in the mirror, I have this thought: “I want to be pretty.”

I didn’t want to be a girl. I knew that. I didn’t even want to be pretty like a girl. No, I definitely wanted to be pretty like a man. I knew this is how I felt, but I had no idea what it meant. And I definitely did not know how to pull it off.

And that’s why I was so excited the first time I saw David Bowie. Or maybe it was Robert Smith from The Cure, in the video for “Just Like Heaven,” where he gyrates around in white concealer, black eye shadow, and red lipstick—looking very much like a frumpy vampire who had just rolled out of bed. They were pretty men. And I wanted to be like that.

To make matters worse, my father was a man’s man, and a bit of a homophobe. I noticed, even as a young child, the way he derisively mocked effeminate men. And, at 10 years old, I yearned desperately for his approval. So when the hyper-self-conscious 10-year-old me noticed that my default leg-crossing style was effeminate—with one leg draped over the other, thighs together and calves touching—I felt that this problem must be immediately addressed.

My solution was that, for the next 6 years, I explicitly and self-consciously placed my ankle on my opposite knee whenever I sat down. This, I decided, was the right (read: *masculine*) way to cross one’s legs. I hoped that, as long as I paid close attention to suppress all my instinctual inclinations towards effeminacy, and cultivated masculine affectations, no one—especially not my father—would ever find out the horrible truth that I was actually instantiated a defective version of manhood.

Now, I loved girls. And I admired them. I spend most of my time with women—and I still do. But I’ve never felt the desire to be a woman, or live my life as one. One thing I ought to clarify though, as flawed and inadequate as I felt in my role as a man, I still felt like a man.

About a week ago, I was sitting at my kitchen table, sharing a glass of very expensive scotch with my wife’s partner, The Masseuse (her legal name is suppressed)—who is a transwoman. Eventually the conversation turned to a discussion of gender, and the question of how we knew and understood our gender when we were young. We agreed that we both had major confusion surrounding our gender when we were young. Still, The Masseuse knew that, although she was a boy when she was a child, she wanted to be a woman eventually. Either that, or (according to her) she was going to be dead because she would take her own life. Then in high school The Masseuse took acid for the first time and, apparently, became a woman—at least according to the friends she had taken acid with. This goes to show, LSD has done more good than harm in western culture—but I digress.

Matters weren’t as simple for me. As a kid, I was severely confused. And my carefully concealed and suppressed bisexuality also played a part in my confusion. Because I knew that the way I wanted to look (like a a pretty man) was also what I found attractive in other men.

In high school, and even now, I “presented” …  ever so slightly queerly. I didn’t prance around with a limp wrist. I skateboarded and got into fights. However, even amidst these stereotypical markers of young-male delinquency, some (including my parents) looked at my behavior and guessed that would “end up” gay. In high school, my parents were so convinced I was gay that they let me have sleepovers with girls—many of whom I was fucking. By then, I’d developed a penchant for wearing eyeliner and black nail polish. I liked the way it made me look. And although it was the nineties, the tacit assumption was that I must be gay, or just a freak, because I wanted to look like a girl. Further, in the nineties in Los Angeles, there wasn’t much discussion about gender in the social discourse. And the notion of a transgender person was still very new, and most people were unfamiliar with it. I certainly was.

So, up through college, I struggled to comprehend how my internal gender identity related to both my sexuality and how I wanted to be seen by the world. Now, at some point in college I learned that gender doesn’t fucking exist. But did learning that gender was a social construct really make my problematic relationship with manhood?

It would be nice to think that this byzantine system of social norms and expectations that constitute “gender” is something external to me. And that I can declaratively reject it with a sweep of my hand, and thereby free myself from the shame and disappointment I feel because I’m not able to conform to the various strictures it has placed upon me. But this isn’t the truth. The platonic form of ideal manhood isn’t just something that exists in superhero movies and country songs; it’s also written into the social software I use to navigate the world around me, which is filled with human beings of all shapes, sizes and gender presentations.

But when I feel overwhelmed and hopeless, I always remember one very simple fact: David Bowie was a very pretty man. And if he can be pretty, then so can I.

Gender be damned.

I try to laugh about it
Cover it all up with lies
I try and laugh about it
Hiding the tears in my eyes
Because boys don’t cry
Boys don’t cry

– The Cure, “Boys Don’t Cry”